


Someone To Watch Over Me

by LateStarter58



Series: The Adam and Stella Chronicles [3]
Category: Only Lovers Left Alive (2013)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, F/M, Mental Coercion, Murder, Sexual Coercion, Vampire Sex, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-12 04:04:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16865809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LateStarter58/pseuds/LateStarter58
Summary: Adam and Stella are happy, but are they safe? Both have pasts which may catch up with them at any moment...





	1. Lost in a Wood

_It was dark, but it was not the good darkness she welcomed nightly. This black was inky, threatening, full of half-glimpsed or invisible dangers and frightening noises. She was running, her legs crashing through the scrubby undergrowth, brambles clutching at her clothes and twigs scratching her face and arms. She reached out for her lover, but felt only air._

_She was alone. Again._

_And she was horribly, bone achingly chilled. So, for a second, she knew this had to be a dream, because awake, she no longer felt the cold. And everything was a blur, not the crystal-clear, perfectly realised detail her senses gave her now._

_Panic rose again in her chest, driving all reason and self-awareness away and she speeded her flight, her blind hurtle through the wood; running away, she had to get away, he was coming, chasing, closing on her…_

*******

Adam felt the dream before he heard her whimpers; she was alternately trembling and attempting to burrow deeper in the bedclothes, her hands desperately grasping. Fear poured off her in waves and the smell of it made him bristle with anger. Not with her, but whatever was scaring her.

“Stella, my star, shhhh… I’m here, my love, you are safe.” His soft, dark voice soothed her and she settled into his embrace, still deeply asleep. He lay back, pulling her tighter against his skin. It was dark outside already, but the winter nights were long and they could wait a little longer before rising. He felt uneasy: she was dreaming more, and she seemed to be getting more anxious and afraid as time went on. And he, too, had been dreaming.

_Something was coming._

Adam laid on his back, listening to the wild weather whipping against the walls, his eyes glittering in the darkness. The festivities they had ignored had been followed by days of rain, with gusting winds that beat the flaking wooden shutters of his house against its crumbling brickwork. Nestled down in their shallow valley they were sheltered from some of it, but this three-day storm was angled perfectly to shake the old house to its foundations. The walls groaned, the woodwork creaked and the roof threatened to part company with the eaves.

An hour after her dream abated, Stella stirred, her lips meeting his cool, alabaster shoulder in a sweet kiss.

“Good morning, my beautiful one.”

He felt her slide across the wrinkled sheets to rest the length of her body against his once more. The sweet musk of her arousal fuelled his own, making all of his nerve-endings tingle; they lay skin to skin, hearts beating in time, sighs in harmony as their passion grew. Stella felt it rising in her, the desire that gripped her and the love that ruled her now: the connection that bound them and gave them both a meaning and a reason to live. The last vestiges of her nightmare faded as Adam’s leg pushed between hers and she rocked against him, taking the friction she needed to ease her desperation. His mouth wandered over her face, he inhaled her scent and felt the strength they shared. Her hands gripped at his firm, pale muscles, pulling him, guiding him to her: her power matched his now. Acutely aware of everything, their powerful senses steering them as their base desires took over and they surrendered, to them and to each other. Love and lust and longing mingled in the lovers, as they moved with grace and speed and their cries filled the room.

This coupling, this _sharing_ was a deeper intimacy than Stella had ever known. When she and Adam made love it was as if the rest of the world went away, faded from sight and hearing, and the vast universe was reduced to the confines of their bed, to the flesh and blood of their two bodies; nothing else existed.

There was more urgency in their movements now, and Adam felt the desperation of the dream returning. He held her a little tighter and as she reached her peak he kissed her deeply, while his own climax followed hers and they paused, lost in each other’s eyes, for a long moment.

“Good morning, my love.”

She laughed lightly, but anxiety tightened the skin around her eyes, and her smile was limited by it. Adam felt more worried than ever.

_Something bad was coming_

******

“Putain!” The word came out in a hoarse whisper. The ground underfoot was soft and wet, with a deep layer of accumulated leaves and mud from the days of rain. Gilles had sunk in beyond the top of his boots. He’d had no wish to leave his car, but the open country and bare hedges gave no cover for parking close enough for his mission.

_“The most important thing, Gilles – the MOST important – is that you are not seen. Got that?”_

His supervisor’s words echoed in his head like some horrible mantra, because once he had got to the area and begun his delicate investigation, he realised that unless he was very lucky, it was going to mean a shitload of legwork. Literally. He stayed where he was, hard up against the edge of the wood, hidden from the houses across the field by the shadows, and looked around cautiously. A terrifying screech rent the air from very close by, sending his heart racing and making him stagger and go deeper into the mud. He was a city boy – the sights, sounds and smells of the _campagne_ were unfamiliar, and something about this whole fucked-up thing was scaring him shitless. He stood for a few moments, trying to calm down. He was a professional; that was just some woodland creature, probably an owl,

_What if it was one of those fouines? Someone told me they can bite your face off_

all but harmless. No problem for a grown man. He looked around him, finding a threat in every shadow. It was almost fully dark now, but there were no lights visible at the big house, nor at the smaller one just beside it.

“Connard…” There was nothing for it but to find a dry spot – some hope! – and wait. Mentally calculating how much extra money he might be able to claim for such a dirty and uncomfortable mission, the short, dark, athletic man shuffled carefully along the side of the field until he reached a bank in the lee of a large oak. Setting down his binoculars and DSLR camera, he spread out the bin liner he had brought for just such a contingency and sat down with a heavy sigh.

******

_From deep within the wood, high in a tree, creatures studied the man, watching and waiting as he was, but with a very different agenda._

******

It still felt strange to Stella not to break her fast when she rose, even if it was in the evening instead of at daybreak. After dressing, she would tidy the house as much as was possible (Adam had filled it with so much ‘stuff’ that she struggled to bring order to his beautiful chaos) before reading or surfing the net. She tried to have a routine, because she found those comforting, although Adam seemed to be the reverse, resisting all patterns bar two: a walk in the air nightly, weather permitting, and a monthly drive to the nearest city for supplies.

“We should go tonight. My contact is working and we are getting low.”

Stella had never asked how he had come to this highly illegal and morally questionable arrangement. She saw the logic of it – she had no wish to kill, so the only alternative was to buy blood from a safe, uncontaminated supply. But nonetheless, it made her uneasy, and she knew that it bothered Adam too. It was a risk, so they paid well over the odds to ensure the silence and loyalty of their supplier. Sweet Luc, the young man from the village Adam had employed to act as a go-between with the world, was becoming a friend, albeit one blissfully ignorant as to their true nature. But the relationship with the person at the _Centre de Transfusion Sanguine_ was purely a commercial one – no names, no greetings, no contact beyond the exchange of goods for a roll of €100 notes.

One thing Stella did enjoy was the journey, the sensation of being whisked through darkened, shuttered-up villages, past grey churches and whispering woods. Fields of dozing cattle would lift their heads in alarm as they passed, their wide eyes glowing in the headlamps of the _Déesse._ Rabbits would melt into the ditches, foxes and badgers crossed the tarmac in front of them, gazes fixed on the passing vehicle. But the best sight was her lover, his face lit by the multi-coloured glow of the dashboard, a half-smile on his lips.

Adam loved to drive. It had been the one thing, apart from his music, that really took him out of himself when he was at his lowest. In the car, he was free. He loved how it glided along the miraculously smooth roads of the _département,_ quietly humming and shining in all its delicious, slick beauty. The famous, revolutionary, soft suspension of the Citroën made it feel like a magic carpet. The night was still, and the rain had left too, but he suspected it was a passing respite. He could smell more weather sweeping in, the salty Atlantic wind carrying the next downpours towards them. From the corner of his eye he saw his love watching him and smiled.

“What?”

She grinned and sighed. “Oh, nothing. I just love to look at you.”

They reached their destination quickly and he parked in the dark patch between two yellow streetlights.

“I won’t be long.”

She nodded, glancing at the uniform jacket he wore with the SAMU insignia; his name badge, reading ‘ _G Flaubert’._ She remained in the car while Adam walked calmly into the modern, low, slate-roofed building by way of an open vehicle entrance.

Once inside, he strode down the long corridor. His long legs meant he made rapid progress through the largely deserted building as he tried to convey an air of urgency without panic, so as to appear to belong. He swung the insulated carrier he carried in a casual arc as he headed for the lab where he knew he would find his _fournisseuse._ He reached the door, pausing to listen for a split second. Certain the woman was alone, Adam opened it and slipped inside.

Madame Stosskopf looked up, suddenly aware of a presence, despite not hearing the door. The room was dimly-lit at this time of night, but she could just make out a tall, slim figure in a paramedic’s uniform standing there, so still he might have been a mannequin. She knew who it was. He never warned her, and she had no way of contacting him, but still, she was always ready for his visits.

“Bonsoir, M’sieur.”

Adam nodded, murmuring, “Madame.”

She stood, not wanting to prolong the feeling she battled with whenever the mysterious M. Flaubert was near: desire tempered with utter terror. At a distance from both the man and the event, Gabrielle Stosskopf would reflect on his strange beauty and grace, but when he stood there, in her lab, she simply needed him gone. She opened the large stainless-steel refrigerator and picked up the bags of O-negative. When she turned around, Adam was uncomfortably close, the insulated box open. He watched, his eyes gazing greedily as she placed the packs carefully inside. He replaced the lid and reached into his pocket for the roll of notes. Her heart was pounding and Adam could hear it, and smell the fear that was pouring off her.

“Merci. À bientôt.” He turned on his heel and headed for the door, hearing Gabrielle mumble “Bon soirée” and release a held breath, as the door swung shut behind him. Retracing his steps, he thought how much better this arrangement was than some he had made in the past. The man in Detroit who was just a little bit too curious, in the hospital that was too full of bleeding patients; the wildly unreliable tech on Kos who tried to touch up Eve and who had to be threatened. Adam never really trusted him after that, always fearing exposure or arrest.

Stella watched him walk unhurriedly back towards her, his lean silhouette backlit by the bright ambulance bay. He was so lithe, so graceful to watch, like a dancer. His wild hair tucked into the SAMU beanie he could have passed for the real thing, although his boots were strictly non-regulation. He smiled through the windscreen at her as he went past and turned the handle to open the boot.

“All OK?” She hated the tremulous sound of her voice. She feared he would think she didn’t trust him, but everything tonight seemed unnerving.

“Fine. We’re fine.” Adam covered her hand with his large one and leaned over to kiss her mouth softly. “Let’s go home.”

The return journey was as unremarkable as the outward one, with one exception. As they passed through one village a sudden, fleeting feeling of fear hit them both. Looking about them, neither saw any obvious threat. A small car had passed, going the other way, but they dismissed it. Stella returned to dozing, her disturbed sleep catching her up, but as Adam steered the car onto the narrow road that led down into the shallow valley where their house lay, the sensation returned a hundredfold and her entire body came alive with goose bumps.

“Adam” she whispered, “something’s wrong.”

“I feel it too.” He slowed the car to a crawl and extinguished the headlights. His eyes scanned the darkness. He sensed something, someone… He parked halfway down the slope and got out, still searching with eyes, ears and nose. He caught a whiff of human: sweat and cologne, coffee and _pastis_ , but it was far off and fading. _And was that something else, something older…?_ He slid back into the driving seat and looked at her. “I don’t think he’s nearby. Maybe someone has been here rabbiting or something. I think they’ve gone now, anyway.”

Stella nodded: she felt that too. Whatever, _whoever_ it was, they were gone.

They were both right. Gilles had set off an hour after they left on their foraging trip, unable to tell from his vantage-point if the person he sought was in the car or not. He had tried to look through the windows of the big house, having discovered the smaller one was empty, although the garden seemed well-tended. The shutters were closed on all but a few, and heavy brocade curtains blocked those. Unable to get a mobile signal in the dip, he had decided to head back to the rented furnished room he had acquired (cheaper than a hotel) and, unwittingly, had passed his quarry on the road. He reported in by text, and promised to send a fuller report by email in the morning. Peeling off his damp and filthy clothes, he lay down in the narrow, lumpy bed and fell into a troubled sleep.

*******

_In the trees, the creatures were preparing to move. The lone man was of interest, but only as quarry. They were searching for another, one they hoped to join. Their group was loose but stable, and the fool on his errand might provide some fun for them, perhaps more, before the week was out. The largest of them slipped out of the shade of the oaks and ran, swift and lithe, across the fields. The rest followed, compelled by the ties of loyalty and blood – always by blood – to the derelict farm they were using for shelter. As they reached their temporary home they heard HIS car, turning then stopping._

_“He has felt us, smelt us,” the leader said, a cold smile dancing on his lips. He looked at his mate. “He will see us soon enough.”_

*******

“I want to check on my garden, before it rains again.” Stella was heading for the line of ash trees that formed the boundary between Adam’s property and her former home. She no longer lived there, but she kept it clean and tidy, for the sake of appearances, and because she had been unable to give up gardening. In fact, she had begun to tackle the ruin of the _potager_ within the walls that surrounded the back of the big house. Adam mocked her gently, but she found peace and comfort there, even if she was forced to dig and sow and weed in the dark.

“I’ll join you in a minute. I’ll just put this away.”

Shortly afterwards, Adam stepped through the thin hedge, crossed the narrow ditch that divided his place from hers – just a line in a map now, since they had become one and she had moved into his house – and stepped out onto her lawn. Stella was standing stiff ahead of him, looking at the house.

“What is it?” He didn’t need to ask. He could smell it too: the man, whoever he was and whatever he wanted, had been there, and recently. Earlier tonight. And here too, the other scent he had detected was stronger, and that alarmed Adam more.

“What is that, Adam?” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

“Others,” he answered, his hands coming to rest on her shoulders, “they are looking for us. For me.”


	2. Longing to See

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we meet the delightful Barnaby...

A well dressed, expensively groomed man stood by the window of his office, high up above the Thames. His gaze was directed upstream, towards the City of London and its sunlit, shining monuments to capitalism; he watched, imagining his lifeblood washing down the river, towards the North Sea. His face was a mask of calm. Only his hands gave him away. The convulsive flexing and the appearance of his fingernails, bitten down to the quick, and the skin around them, tattered and bleeding in places.  

Anyone standing in the room with him would have been unnerved: reflected in the plate-glass of the window, topped by close-cropped red hair, the man’s harshly handsome face was stony. He was tall, well over six feet, and wide with it. Years of rugby and judo had built a physique to match his personality: tough, implacable and unmistakeably threatening. It suited him, in business and in life, to appear intimidating.

From the large walnut desk behind him came the irritating buzz of his phone, but he ignored it. He had no desire to deal with the whining of those pathetic human beings today. _The value of investments can go down as well as up._ They knew the risks; they had been warned; they had been in the market for ever. They sounded like experts during the lavish dinners and the posh cocktails. Things turn sour and they pretend to be surprised? Wankers. What made this a major fuck-up was that this time, he – not just his fucking clients, but _he_ \- was really in a tight spot. He needed to get his hands on that Swiss safety net of his.

He knew whom to blame, all right. _Her_. How dare she do this to him, after all he had done for her? After all the time and money… after he had saved her, rescued her from a nothing, provincial future and brought her into the glamour and sophistication of his lifestyle?

_Ungrateful slut_

_How could she be surviving without him?_

He was frustrated, irritated, fiercely self-convinced: very soon now, she would be back. On bended knee, begging for the forgiveness he would – _graciously_ \- bestow. Any day now, he was certain. He’d get his hands on that nest egg and get back what was HIS. Then he would show her, no, actually, _she would see_ what she had been missing. He smiled to himself. The kind of joyless grimace seen on the faces of gargoyles or the carved figures of demons on misericords; it was the type of smile that curdles milk and frightens small animals.

********

She could smell the blood, even before he opened the fridge. Food had been a great pleasure in her old life, and she missed it sometimes; she missed the textures in her mouth. But when the metallic tang of haemoglobin reached her nose, she lost all interest in anything else. It had been a strange and unsettling night, and now they were indoors, Adam had gone to prepare something for their pleasure.

Stella sat, still and concentrating, on the tattered old couch in what had once been a grand parlour, but was now filled with recording equipment and instruments. Her long blonde hair draped over the soft cream cashmere sweater she had wrapped around her shoulders. She had lost some weight, so her jeans were a little too big on her hips, although she had kept the lovely curves that had made men want her. The look in her eyes at that moment would have alarmed most human males.

Although he was some distance away, on the other side of the large house and down a floor, she could hear every movement. He was pouring the crimson liquid into a small decanter and making up a tray to bring upstairs. Closing her blazing eyes, she recalled the wildness of the early days of her new existence: she had been feral, out of control, desperate to feed. Adam had used all his strength and fortitude to hold her and guide her through the madness. Some months later, thanks to the passage of time, but mostly to him, she had begun to gain some control. She was able to contain it when she spoke to Marie-Claire, the baker’s wife or to Luc, her husband’s nephew, but it had been a struggle at first. The thrill, the desperation, was instinctive, and intoxicating. Adam had told her how, given time and practice, she would be able to walk among a crowd and not have to fight the urge to feed. But for now, the company of just one zombie at a time, preferably one she was fond of, was all she could manage.

He was coming now: she heard the tinkle of the crystal cordial glasses, his soft step on the stairs. And the smell: that, above all. Stella closed her eyes again as he neared the doorway, and didn’t open them until she felt his weight join her on the sofa.

“Darling.” His voice was always a balm. It had been from that first night, when her nightmare had alarmed him so much he had dared to enter her little house.

“Adam.” It was just his name, but from her lips it sounded to him like a confession of love.

He passed her a small, delicately decorated glass with an air twist stem, filled with blood. Her eyes fixed on it, her mouth watering as she took it carefully from his beautiful pale fingers. The rusty fragrance filled her head and her entire body rippled with the craving that made her what she was now. Together, in synchrony, they sipped the fluid like maiden aunts tasting sweet sherry, both controlling the urge to guzzle it. Adam believed that taking the blood like this: slowly, in a measured, civilised way, enabled them to rein in their baser instincts.  It would be all too easy to gorge, to become lost in lust for the sensation they were now succumbing to: deep warmth permeating every part of them; a tingling pleasure that was addictive.

As the glasses were emptied, they both allowed their heads to roll back on the worn red plush, breathing deeply and losing themselves in the moment. To the casual observer – if such a thing were possible – they might appear like junkies after a fix. Glassy-eyed, gape-mouthed, sprawled on the couch, limbs entwined as they came down. This bliss, so much more than just ‘feeding’ in Stella’s mind, always lasted some time. Longer if they had delayed it, which they did on occasion purely because it made it that much sweeter. This night, thanks to the adrenaline the strangeness of events had induced, the high was profound and lasting. An hour later they made their way to bed.

******

Marie-Claire didn’t like the look of this man. The village _boulangerie_ , located on a busy road between a large town and a city, was used to a degree of passing trade, truck drivers and sales reps, not to mention tourists, but this customer did not seem right to her. His eyes darted around the shop too much; he had spent much longer than he should looking at the little notice board outside before he came in; something about the way he was assessing the other people in the queue made her hackles rise.

She was even more suspicious when he spoke to her: his charm was forced, way too smooth. Everything he said had the feel of a well-rehearsed script about it, and of unasked questions lurking beneath. Most damning of all was the manner in which he had waited until all her other clients had been served and left the shop before he so much as opened his mouth. As soon as he did, and this really confirmed her doubts, she heard the Parisian accent and was immediately more distrustful.

Finally, he got to the point: “Tell me, _Madame,_ are there many _anglais_ around these parts?”

Playing it cool, she simply answered, “A few. Why do you ask?”

A slight, obviously insincere laugh. “Oh, I was just wondering. A friend of mine from England told me he has a cousin, a single woman, who moved down this way somewhere. I thought I might look her up, as I’m in the area, you know.”

If he were a policeman, he would say so. They are always happy to flash their badges around and try to get free cakes and chocolates. Whatever this _type_ was up to, it wasn’t official. The _boulangère_ smiled sweetly as she popped his hot pizza from the little warming oven into a bag. “Nobody I can think of like that, not around here. Have you tried a bit further north, near Gorron? It’s lousy with English up there.”

Obviously irritated, the man left with his lunch, and she watched him looking up and down the street. _I should ring Suzanne in the bar, warn her. And I must tell Stella that a man is asking questions about her. A strange man from Paris_.

******

“Oh. Right…”

Stella was looking at her phone. She had kept it, because, like maintaining the garden, it made everything seem normal from the outside. She had a message, from Marie-Claire. She stared at it, trying to assess if it was connected with the scent of a man they had detected the night before.

“What is it?”

“Some zombie from Paris has been in the baker’s, asking questions. Looking for a single Englishwoman.” She looked up and was met with Adam’s tense face. “It’s alright, my love, Marie-Claire told him nothing. But if he asks enough people…”

He nodded. This was the same man who had been snooping around, he was certain of it. “You should go and see her tonight, and find out what you can, Stella. Do you think-?”

“Who else could it be?” A chill ran through her: this explained her nightmares.

******

Gilles clicked on the ‘send’ icon and leaned back in his chair, sighing with satisfaction. He had found the woman, written the report and sent it in. He’d had to drive fifty kilometres to find a place with free wifi so he could email the document, but that was no real hardship. At least here in _Le Relais d’Alsace_ he could get a decent dinner, an entrecote and a nice cold beer. His starter of _crudités_ arrived and he ate slowly, awaiting the reply from HQ. He hoped that locating this _anglaise,_ and confirming it thanks to the loquacious woman behind the counter in the little post office, would mean he could stop tramping around muddy fields in the dark. His phone pinged just after the waiter left him alone with his plate of _frîtes_ and the juicy slab of beef cooked, but only just, exactly how he liked it.

No, no such luck for poor old Gilles: _“Get some photos of the man, the car, the house. Be careful not to be seen, but get them.”_ He sighed and ate on. His weather app warned of more rain later. The man’s shoulders slumped, even as the first spoonful of vanilla-scented _île flottante_ was gliding down his tongue. The taste of the delicious dessert turned to ashes as he contemplated his fate.

“Merde.”

*******

“Stella. We will have to leave. We can’t stay here.” He didn’t want to say it, but he felt the others were an even greater danger to them, to their peaceful existence, than her ex.

Stella was pacing the room while he watched her, a serious expression clouding her beautiful face. She had feared this for so long, and had prepared for it to some degree. But so much had changed: she was not facing it alone, and there were new dangers posed by him finding her and Adam. She hadn’t told him the full story yet, reluctant to go there, preferring to enjoy this new happiness.

After she first left Barnaby, running away with only what she wore and could carry in her designer handbag, she had hidden in a succession of refuges and other safe places recommended by her solicitor. He always managed to find her, sooner or later. Despite his bullying, he was never able to get her to return to him, and after the third occasion she went to court to get a restraining order. Not that it made any difference at first, but the next time he showed up on the doorstep, threatening the warden of the refuge and shoving other residents around, the police were called and he was arrested. The real danger of six months in jail for contempt of court was the tipping-point. After that, he had kept his distance. Best of all, his behaviour had worked against him by the time the divorce proceedings were heard.

Despite his apparent compliance after his initial threats, Stella had known he would not give up that easily, which is why, once the Decree Absolute went through, she left the country and changed her name. She had emptied all her UK accounts and opened new ones in several different French banks. And it was money that he was after now; she was pretty sure about that.

“I know we must, Adam. But where?” She watched him wrestling with it. They could not go to the US: he had told her about Detroit, and there were a few places in Europe that were similarly too risky.

“I have a few ideas.” He stood up. “Let me do some checking. Go and see Marie-Claire.”

*******

Icy rain was falling again. Gilles parked his Peugeot in the same place, tucked away in a dirt lane that led to an abandoned barn, under some laurel trees that hid it from the road. He muttered blackly to himself as he put his newly acquired boots and waterproof coat on, closed the hatch and set off towards the house, camera in his pocket. As he drew nearer, he left the tarmac farm road and clambered through the hedge, cursing the branches that caught on his sleeves and scraped his face. The field was muddier than ever, and twice he stepped in deep rucks full of brown water.

Ahead, in the pale moonlight that was just breaking through the clouds, he saw the copse and made for its shelter. It was still damp under the trees, and every so often a large raindrop would fall directly down the back of his neck, but it was better than being in the open. There were noises all around him: odd scratchings and rattlings, the occasional low growl. He shivered and pulled his coat a little closer, fighting a sudden panicky urge to make a run for his car. A noise in the distance distracted him from his fright: the woman’s little Clio was leaving. This would be a good time to take his pictures.

_Above, high in the oak, several pairs of cold eyes were watching him. Fear made his scent stronger and Marcel, the leader, licked his lips and began to slip silently down towards the ground. His mate, smaller and slighter, followed, her fangs descending as she got nearer the prey. Others remained in the branches, awaiting the signal to join the hunt. Discipline was everything to Marcel, and those who crossed him didn’t last long. Despite their hunger, they waited._

_Their master was torn. He had seen the female leave, and he was desperate to make contact with the ancient one. He knew who it was – word spread fast in their world. Especially if the individual was famous, practically royalty… But food was the most important thing. He was only inches from the stinking creature now. If the stupid zombie had looked up at that moment he would have got the scare of his life: Marcel was hanging from the lowest branch, upside down, his long arms about to grab dinner._

******

Stella had been shepherded into the back room at the _boulangerie,_ Candice being left in charge of closing up while her boss filled her friend in on what had happened.

“I knew there was something fishy about him, straight away.” Marie-Claire pulled a face at the memory. “I got on the phone to Suzanne, and she answered just as he went in _Le Bon Accord._ He was asking everyone the same thing. It’s a good job most of those old fools are as deaf as posts.”

Stella laughed mechanically. _What if he found someone willing to talk? Not everyone in the village was as distrustful of strangers…_ “Where did he go after that?” She was struggling to keep her voice steady. Her heart was racing, and she wanted nothing more than to run and hide, grab Adam and head for the hills.

“Suzanne wasn’t sure, but he went out of the exit near _La Poste,_ so…”

“Fuck.”

*******

_Maddalena grinned wolfishly, her teeth red. What was left of Gilles lay in a crumpled heap of rags against the tree. Marcel and his mate had taken the lion’s share, and the rest had scrapped over what remained. They were still hungry, always, it seemed, these days.  Food was hard to come by in this sparsely populated area. They had been making do with livestock and wild animals, but that would keep his group together for only so long._

_Marcel needed to talk to the celebrity over the way, and soon. He had to be getting blood from somewhere, and he would share. He had to._

_It was the code._

******

Although hours had passed, Barnaby Villiers was still by the floor-to-ceiling window of his Docklands office. He heard the tone that signalled the arrival of an email. He turned and looked at the screen: it was from the man in Paris. Sitting in his leather wingback chair, he read the contents. The smile came back, wider than ever.

_GOTCHA, BITCH_


	3. Put On Some Speed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adam meets the Others, and Stella tells him some more about her past

_“Stay here.” Marcel’s chilly stare swept over the little group huddled in the dripping copse. Eight pairs of glittering eyes looked back, warily, his mate’s excepted. He flicked his head towards her. “Maddalena’s in charge. I won’t be long.”_

_The rain had stopped some time earlier, while they were feasting. It was wet underfoot and the field was muddy and sparsely grassed. It was not a problem – he ran so fast he hardly made contact. He was fully alive now, infused with fresh blood, vibrating with renewed energy. He could still taste the beer and cigarettes from the zombie; the lingering flavours of the man’s dinner infused Marcel with garlic. He smiled: they still clung to that old fallacy, the humans and their warped myths._

_Marcel had been born in Germany, only just over a hundred years before. He met a mysterious, darkly attractive Italian woman in his hometown of Leipzig, in the tumultuous period between the wars. She had courted him. He realised in retrospect, she must have been checking his suitability to be her new companion and, in the modern parlance, grooming him. He had been barely twenty then, naïve and innocent – those were different times. She, of course, was many centuries older. They danced, drank (he did, at any rate), took moonlit strolls through the city, all very conventional, excluding her uncertain origins and his stuffy father’s total and utter disapproval. This comparative normality lasted a month or so. One cold winter’s night she led him, brimming with beer and drunk with sexual frustration, up the winding stairs to her tiny apartment on Gohliser Strasse and nothing had been the same since. He and Adriana wandered the continent together for fifty years, avoiding wars (not easy), finding places where they could hide and feed at will (easier than one might think), until, just thirty years ago, she fell victim to the sickness._

_Life – if that is the right word, Marcel could never quite settle on it in his own thoughts – had become much more difficult since the viruses began to spread everywhere. The low-lifes, the excluded, the junkies and the whores seemed to be the ones who harboured the germs, and those had always been their main source of prey. How he escaped it he did not know. Sheer, blind luck, but the wasting and the jaundice had done for so many of their kind. The loose coalition Adrianna had brought him into was much reduced; fewer than a tenth of them remained now.  After she was gone he had broken with them, determined to make his own way and carve out his own little empire. Coming upon Maddalena in Trier, by pure chance, had been a pivotal moment. She was all alone, freshly turned and frightened, and with her he had found that connection he believed was lost. They had accumulated a small band of new followers in the years since. Things felt as if they were on the up._

_All he needed now was a good supply of clean blood._

_*****_

“Fuck.”

Luc was standing on the doorstep, visibly shaken. His voice through the intercom was undeniably fearful. Adam pressed the button to unlock the outer door and went down the stairs to meet him.

“I didn’t tell him anything, of course, but he’d just been in the post office. That woman, she’s not from the village. Nobody likes her. She must have pointed me out because he ran across the road to get to me-“

“It’s OK, Luc. I know it’s not your fault.” Adam interrupted the panicky flow, speaking with a calm that belied the turmoil he was feeling. He sighed. He had built up a good relationship with this lad. He was just beginning to make all the right contacts, like that guitar dealer in Le Mans… what a drag. Stella’s ex could make life impossible for them, maybe worse.

The young man hurried out of the door, thanking Adam profusely for his confidence and promising to report if he heard any more about the stranger. Adam watched him leave, looking for a long time into the dark trees that lined his drive and had once formed a barrier between his life and Stella’s. _What had happened in her marriage, really? There were still things about Stella he did not know._ From their first conversation he had detected trauma, but she had never discussed it with him.

He was still standing at the window, awaiting her return, when he sensed a presence and saw the tiniest of movements on the edge of his vision. A dark shape had materialised by the ash trees. Intense emotion was pouring from the man; he was as tall and slim as Adam himself, standing totally still and from all that _and_ the scent wafting up, undeniably one of the _Others_. Swift as lightning, Adam moved back and down the stairs. He looked cautiously through the etched glass of his large front door. The man had moved and was standing in the pool of light from the porch lantern.

_Stella must be on her way back by now. I don’t want him to see her._

“What do you want?”

The door was open a crack, but all Marcel could see were two bright eyes and a mop of messy black hair.

“My lord, I just wish to speak with you.”

Adam snorted. “I’m nobody’s lord.” He pondered. This bloke was clearly steeped in all the folklore. “Look, all we want is to be left alone, alright? We have nothing for you, nothing you want. Please leave.”

Marcel was not deterred. “I think you do, sir. My… _associates_ and I, we, er… we are in need of a reliable source of food.”

“I can’t help you. Please. Leave.”

The sound of Stella’s car, still well over a mile away, reached his ears and he began to get angry. Marcel obviously heard it too. “Your mate, is it?” Adam did not respond. “Look, we’ve dealt with that little problem of yours. You don’t need to worry about that snooper any more.”

“What?!” Adam rolled his eyes. _Oh brilliant, great. Perfect. Another fucking dead zombie. There’ll be police all over us in the morning._ He looked at the vampire in front of him, all the time trying to send the message to Stella to stay on the road, keep driving… The man was smiling back at him, apparently expecting something.

“Do you still do that…?”

“Feed, well, ye-“

“Kill zombies.”

“When we can find suitable ones, yes.” His expression hardened. “Look, we did you a favour. That thing was spying on you.” The exasperation was unmistakeable.

Stella was nearer now, he heard her Renault making the turn off the narrow road and down the lane. He had to get rid of this guy and fast. “Look, er-“

“Marcel.” He stepped forward and Adam reacted instantly, taking a rapid stride back into the porch, maintaining the distance between them.

“Look, I’m sorry, but like I said, I can’t help you and your, er, friends. We don’t want any trouble, we just want to be left alone.” His stare was steady and unwavering. Marcel was visibly disappointed, but seemed to accept it and turned to leave. But as he did he paused and spoke again.

“It’s good to share, you know, _Adam._ We can help each other, I think.”

Then, with a flash of movement he was gone, just as the lights of Stella’s car illuminated the place where he had been standing. She parked in her usual place beside the house and walked slowly up to where Adam still stood.

“Was there someone here, just then?”

Adam nodded. “And Luc came by a while ago too. The mystery man spoke to him. He had discovered where we are, my love.”

“I thought so. But who was that, just now? He seemed… and there’s a scent…”

Adam sighed and pulled her into his arms, looking over her shoulder at the shadows beyond. “One of the _Others_. They killed the zombie, but-“

“What?!” She pulled away from him so she could see his face properly. “What do you mean, ‘killed’? Drank him?”

Again, Adam nodded sadly. “We might be visited by the police, I don’t think his disappearance will go unnoticed for long. And I fear it may have been too late to stop his information getting through.”

“Wait. You mean this… _other_ did it _on our behalf_?” Stella was horrified. Her stomach was churning. _Someone had been killed, because of her, of them?_ She turned away from Adam and hugged herself, trembling. He watched her, devastated.

“I think they wanted to feed, mostly. He was just in the wrong place… But this Marcel, he seemed to think that I would repay him, or something… Fuck, it’s all going to shit.” He stepped towards her, touched her shoulder and she allowed him to gather her into his embrace. “Come on, let’s go inside.”

********

_He was angry, but not surprised. Adam and his old mate had quite the reputation. Aloof, cultured, not given to sharing. Snobs, in other words – not that Marcel had ever met anyone who’d ever actually spoken to them… The woman he was with now was new to this, no doubt turned by the old one himself. She might persuade him._

_He ran, swiftly, gaining on the wild boar he had spooked (until it zigged off at a tangent), across the field, back to the oak copse and his troupe. He had not expected immediate acquiescence, but he had hoped for a little more gratitude. He told his followers a polished, more positive version of the truth. Maddalena curled herself around him and they strolled back through the darkness to their sleeping place._

_As the night waned, he lay back, his mate’s scrawny body draped over his, on their filthy bedding in the old German pillbox. It stank in there; it offended him deeply. He thought of ‘Lord’ Adam and his high and mighty ‘Lady’, over the rise and across the green paysage; they were in their comfortable bed._

_Oh well. He was patient. He would watch and wait. He had time._

_A faint, rumbling growl rattled in his chest._

**********

 “You have to understand two things, Adam: when I first met Barnaby, I was just twenty, and a virgin. And he was not like he is now. Or at least, he was playing the charming nice-guy. Once I met his parents, well… I think, in retrospect, he was always going to end up this way.” Stella was standing, her arms crossed over her body, looking at Adam. He had settled on the bed and was listening, watching how her hands moved up and down her own arms. Before she continued, she turned to face the bedroom wall and the many pictures Adam had put up there. _Newton, his hero Tesla, Jane Austen…_ “I was so alone. I was scared, half the time. The other half, I was just miserable. The only things I had were my studies and music.”

She closed her eyes and remembered how magical it had seemed, the night they met. Of course, she knew now how clever he had been. “He came to a concert, part of the _City of London Festival_. The choral group I was in at the time, well,” her heart lurched when she thought of them. Five young people, loving what they were doing, four friends she was just beginning get close to, “We were performing Palestrina motets. We were damn good, I must say, and it was just so…” She had to pause, overcome with emotion. That music was so pure, so utterly clean and perfect, and yet it had become so tainted in her memory.

“Stella?” His voice was soft, loving.

“It’s OK. It’s just hard to go back there.” She swallowed and straightened her back a bit. “He was there, in the front row. The concert was at The Painters’ Hall, near the Mansion House.”

“I know it.”

She shuddered a little. At the time she had been flattered by the attention – what young woman wouldn’t have been? A handsome, obviously well off man, whose eyes never left her, as far as she could tell, throughout the evening. Afterwards, once the audience had left and the Livery Company staff were closing up, she and her friends made their way out. There he was, waiting in the darkened street outside. “He was clever, approaching me when I was still with the others, offering to buy us all a drink. Of course, the lads were well up for it. None of us had much cash – hard up students, you know – so we went to a pub along Queen Vic Road. And at the end of the evening, when we went to catch the last Tube, I gave him my number, like the naïve idiot I was.”

Adam said nothing. He kept his gaze fixed on her, doing his best to send her the strength she needed.

“It all seemed so lovely and romantic, and wildly exciting, then. Flowers and chocolates and gifts, dinners by candlelight, all the clichés… I fell for it, hook line and sinker, but deep down I knew.” She turned to look at him. “I knew I didn’t love him. I was in love with the idea of him, the idea of being in this kind of relationship. Of being loved, and most of all, of being looked after.” Tears welled up in her eyes. Her parents had died; she was an only child with few close relatives, none of whom wanted to take her in. “I just wanted to be cared for, protected. I couldn’t, or at least, I didn’t _want_ to see how dangerous that was.”

Adam listened silently while she laid it all out for him. His proposal by the balustrade at Montmartre; their lavish wedding (in a City church despite her atheism) for which Barnaby or his mother made all the choices, including Stella’s own dress; the marginalisation of the few friends she had, at that event and increasingly so afterwards. “It began with the subtlest of criticisms. Was that what I was wearing? I didn’t know, I didn’t understand these things, _it’s alright, I’ll take care of it_ … Things got more hostile when I didn’t get pregnant.”

He sighed, doing his best to contain his own anger, which was bubbling up. No wonder she had nightmares about this bastard. How he’d love to get his hands on…

“Of course, in public it was all nicey-nicey, lovey-dovey. I was the perfect little mousey wifey, pretty enough and wearing expensive enough clothes and jewellery. Every now and then, apart from the usual dinners and events, I’d been taken into his office or his lawyers’ – god, those arseholes – and told to sign papers. Barnaby had opened accounts in my name, in the UK and in Zurich, not that I ever had anything to do with them directly… I had a credit card, for my ‘expenses’ – buying the things he wanted me to wear, but these mystery accounts… I didn’t know what they were for, anything really, except that I had to accompany him to Switzerland so I could register my iris scan and fingerprints at the bank. After that, we went down to this fancy vault, but I was shoved to one side while he and that vile accountant of his did something with a safety deposit box.

I closed my eyes, Adam, literally and figuratively. I had nothing else, just my music, my books, my garden and the telly. I would try to forget him during the day – I lived for his business trips, when I would have days of peace – and do my best to behave as he wanted when he was there. I turned my head and tried to leave my body when he used me at night. It wasn’t a life, but it was all I had. All I felt I deserved.”

This last statement upset Adam. “No.” He did not raise his voice but she felt his emotion. “That’s wrong.”

“I know that now, I realised it, eventually, but it took a while. I had to reach the bottom first, I suppose. The sex…” Stella cringed, but this was an important element, the thing that made the scales fall from her eyes at last. She turned back to face Adam, closed the space between them and sat on the edge of the bed. He drew up his legs and shuffled to sit alongside her. “It was never, well, not remotely like it is with you. It was always, just, well, about him, what he wanted. If I wasn’t ready, it was my fault. But after a year, when I still hadn’t conceived, he began to force me. Subtly, of course, but there was no question of me saying ‘no’.” Adam put his arm around her shoulder as she shuddered. “He was always impatient with me, then angry. After a while, nothing I did was right; the tiniest thing would provoke a tirade of shouting, or the throwing of plates or whatever came to hand. And every night, whatever time he came to bed, whether I was awake or not, he’d want sex. The rougher the better: I think he preferred it when he hurt me, actually.

He was beginning to lose control, I think. His business, god knows what he does, financial commodities or something, it all sounded dodgy to me – but it began to get into difficulties. He was at the office longer, he came home angrier, more distracted and I paid the price. He never hit me, but one night I was ill – I had a migraine and I was getting over the flu – but he insisted as usual. I felt so terrible I tried to fight him off. I couldn’t – he’s very strong – and that was the first out-and-out rape. Looking back, I see it was all rape, most of our sexual contact after the first year, really, but that was unambiguously so. I was bleeding and bruised the next day. He seemed, well, _happy_.”

This memory was too much for her composure, and she collapsed against Adam and sobbed. She could still feel the pain, the disgust, the utter degradation of that night and the subsequent weeks. What little that was left of her self-esteem was being destroyed.

_Look at the state of you! You should be grateful I want to fuck you at all, looking like that. What a waste of space you are, you ungrateful cunt!_

“I stopped doing everything except what he told me to. I left the garden to the gardener, the house to the housekeeper. But I had to keep going to his events, his client’s dinners and parties. Thank god for that, because I met Stephanie at one.”

******

As Stella was outlining his conduct as a husband, Barnaby Villiers was driving his sleek black Mercedes-Benz S-class down the motorway towards Folkestone. Illuminated by the dash display, his face had its usual grim expression, but a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He knew where she was; things were going to get fixed. He would regain access to his emergency fund; she would be back in his bed. Where she belonged. A quick trip to the land of the cuckoo clock and then - whoosh! Back to the house and normality would be restored. He tapped the steering-wheel button to turn up the volume on _Black Sabbath,_ and gunned the engine to overtake a line of lorries heading, like him, for the Channel Tunnel.

_I’m coming for you, Stella._


	4. She Carries the Key

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stella finishes telling her story as her ex draws nearer. But he doesn't know that he is walking into danger of his own.

“Tell me about her. Who was Stephanie?”

There had been a long silence. Stella had just sat for some time, still and quiet, trying her best to calm her racing heart. Adam had held her close, feeling the tremors pass through her body. In his long life he had come across all kinds of suffering, and he knew it was usually the very old, the very young and women who bore the worst of it. Men like Barnaby Villiers were not rare, sadly. Stella inhaled deeply, stiffened her resolve and continued. She was almost at the end of it.

“She was new in our circle. She was a solicitor – at one of those big London firms - who had started dating one of Barnaby’s investors, although that didn’t last long. I thought after that perhaps it was because she wasn’t like the rest of those people, or maybe just because she was new, but I don’t know. Whatever it was, she seemed to see what was going on, straight away. When we were in the ladies’, she came up to me and pressed her card into my hand. “Give me a call, when you’re ready.” That’s all she said, but it seemed to free something inside me; I barely had to wrestle with it, I just knew. One day the next week, when he was away on business, I decided to leave. I grabbed my handbag, some jewellery… I took my photo album as well; it was all I had left of my Mum and Dad.” Her eyes ran over the old leather book beside the bed. It was her most precious possession.  “I just walked out of the front door. When I had got a few streets away from the house I rang the number on the card. Steph came and picked me up in her car and took me to a refuge.” A great sigh left her as she relived the dizzying mixture of fear and relief she had experienced that day.

“They’ve just made most of what he did to me against the law. But then, all that I could do was get away and hide. Stephanie started the divorce proceedings for me, on the grounds of unreasonable behaviour.” She grinned at Adam, but there was no joy in it. “I wish I could have been a fly on the wall when he got home and found me gone. And then when he got the petition. Anyway, he tracked me down pretty quickly, came to the shelter and tried to grab me. He was shouting, about how I owed him, how stupid I was. It was horrible, but still better than being in the house. That particular refuge has security guards, so they threw him out. But he kept coming back, so Steph found me another place to go while she got a restraining order. He threatened her too.”

Adam held her a little tighter, as if he could protect her from the past with his love. She felt his wish and it made her love him a little more. “Eventually the police had to be called when he showed up again at the new place. He was arrested, charged with contempt of court. That stopped him... Oh!”

“What is it, my love?”

“It just occurred to me that the order might still be in force… but it only applies in the UK, so…”

She was leaning into Adam’s side more heavily now, her energy drained by the process of telling her story. He brushed her long blonde hair back from her face and kissed her cheek softly. Stella turned towards him and their mouths met. Adam was so suffused with his love for her, a love he had never hoped to feel again, that he could hardly think, barely breathe. He knew only that he had to show that love to her now. Stella reached for his hands, finding them without looking and lacing her fingers through his. Adam’s lips were caressing hers gently, pressing and teasing and making her flesh tingle in anticipation.

Every movement was filled with affection; every response was loving and reciprocal. Adam lifted their hands up and left hers aloft, trailing his fingers down the outsides of her arms. His mouth roamed her face and neck, and the little whimpering noises that escaped from her increased his own arousal. Stella felt her head rolling back on her neck, but most of her mind was focussed on the contact with him: his lips, his fingertips and his thighs beneath her now she had moved onto his lap. He was intoxicating. She had come to adore everything about him. His voice, so low, sometimes little more than a growl, always enticing. His pale skin, like alabaster, and, to remind herself, she leaned over and kissed, then nipped, at his long, beautiful neck. Even his hair, which was too long and wild, but suited his wild-child rock star soul. His scent: animal, earth, spices of the orient, something old and natural she needed to inhale to keep living.

A cool hand slipped inside the loose chemise she was wearing, cupping a breast in long fingers and drawing a gasp from her. “Adam,” she breathed, grinding her sex against his hardness, making him moan in his turn. His lips sucked harder on that place where neck becomes shoulder, causing a shiver of pleasure to ripple through her slender body. Stella lowered her hands and grasped his hair, pressing him firmly against her. There was no rush, no hurry; for creatures like them, haste was superfluous: they had as much time as they chose. Stella’s hands slid between the black cotton of the threadbare classic T-Rex t-shirt and his ivory chest, drifting up and around his neck while she undulated herself against him.

“My star,” he moaned, darkly, breathing her in. She had saved him, when his accustomed despair at life and the world had threatened to engulf him completely. Her beauty, her voice, her bright light had drawn him back from the brink. He loved her: the way her hair draped over her breasts and back; the shape of her body, all the curves and dips; the smell of her arousal, filling his head now and making him so hard he could think of nothing else but driving into her. He had been pulled into her orbit by her dichotomy. She was strong and vulnerable; she had wanted both solitude and companionship; she was the missing element in his life, the one he had not searched for but whom he found without looking.

The need to join became more urgent. Adam’s deft fingers loosened her clothing and she swiftly exposed his pale flesh. She was desperate for him now, for the unsullied joy of their coupling to drive out the foul memories that had been stirred up. A brief, passing image, a memory of a sweaty body heaving, of smoke-stinking-whisky-breath, of grunting and pain and disgust, made her shudder. Adam pressed his cheek against hers and murmured: “You are safe now. He cannot hurt you.” The sound of her lover’s words washed away the vile memory, cleansing her as his body entered hers, renewing their bond.

******

Wide-eyed and staring, after a sleepless night waiting for the first crossing of the day, Barnaby snarled his irritation as the underside of his car scraped on the sill of the Shuttle exit. It annoyed him every time, but the tunnel was the fastest method for him to get to the area where Stella was living now, apparently shacked up with some greasy musician, according to the report. He chewed the inside of his cheek in impotent fury at the thought she might be happy. _How dare she?_ He had not thought that useless baggage capable of lasting a month without him to tell her what to do and where to go… Now four years had passed and he had not seen nor heard anything of her. He knew she had to have changed her name, and he had given the agency a list of her family ones, guessing that she would be sentimentally stupid enough to use one of them.

He had been right, of course. He was always right, about everything, all his life.

He steered the big Mercedes towards the motorway south, ignoring the sat-nav as he habitually did. Nothing and nobody told Barnaby Villiers what to do or where to go. He did glance at the estimated arrival time, however. Six hours from now, he would have his hands on that bitch’s neck and a day after that, on the money he had squirrelled away in her name in good old Zurich.

_Why had he forgotten that only she could access those accounts?_ Who the fuck knew that things would go so monumentally to shit, quite so fast? He had thought he would ride it out, for a long time. He managed to stay one step ahead of his creditors for three years, keeping his head just above the tidal wave of disasters (mainly by standing on lesser beings), but in the end, even he could not avoid the inevitable. He had comforted himself, in those dark moments, with the knowledge that he had fifteen million tucked safely in the cold, antiseptic arms of the Swiss bankers, but it was only after the divorce and she had done her disappearing act that it occurred to him he couldn’t get at it without her eyes and signature. _To think he had chuckled when the judge divided their ‘estate’._ He had acted furious, of course, but that was just for show. His declared income was not insubstantial, but not even his idiotic accountant knew about the Swiss cash.

He smiled his peculiarly joyless smile again as he cut through the brightening day. He imagined her pale, terrified face when he stood before her, he could see her shaking hand signing the chit at the bank; he moaned in pleasure at the thought of her surrendering, the power he had over her intoxicated him.

_Yes, that’s what he would do. He’d fuck that slut right there, on top of the money._

*****

_Marcel lay in the inky stench of his group’s current sleeping-place. He had not closed his eyes at all that day. The others were snoring, scattered around the windowless space, sprawled on a variety of rotting mattresses, filthy bedding and straw._

_This was no way to live. Back in the day, he and Adriana had looked out over shimmering lakes and deep, dark valleys from castles and fortresses, all over Europe. They had stood on hilltops and laughed as the humans murdered each other by the million, they had feasted on blood and stashed their treasures to grow and keep them in luxury… Now he was reduced to this, because those same stupid people – ‘zombies’, some of his kind called them – had poisoned their own blood. He thought of Adam and a fresh growl began deep in his belly. He had a nice house. He had a beautiful, fresh mate. He had a supply of good, safe blood. He should share, that was the way of it. He should not stand by and see others of his kind reduced to chewing on animals and hiding in piss-filled dumps like this._

_Painstakingly, he extracted himself from Maddalena’s tight grip, turning away from her, his eyes glittering in the blackness. There had to be something he could bargain with, some way to get Adam to help them. It would be dark again soon, and the wind was getting up. He lay still, listening to its howling in the empty spaces of the abandoned building, a strange, stubborn survivor from the last big conflagration.  A thought had occurred to him: if that man was searching for Adam or his mate, then someone must have sent him._

_*******_

The day had been a strange, disturbed one. After their lovemaking they had shared a drink and tried to sleep. They had both managed to drop off, but it had been fitful. Both of them sensed it: danger was coming, drawing nearer with every minute. Stella had dreamed of being chased again, thrashing and crying out in her sleep. Adam had visions of the vampire who had visited the night before, and of darker shadows engulfing them. Marcel would be back, that was a given. Eventually he gave up on more sleep and slipped out of bed, now that she was resting peacefully at last. He went to his laptop and sent an email to Germany. If they had to move, and he was more and more convinced that was the case, then arrangements needed to be made. He checked on flights and felt more at ease knowing there was an available and safe escape route. After an hour, his eyelids felt heavy so he went back up and curled himself around Stella.

When he awoke it was near dark but he was alone. Momentarily panicked, Adam shot up and called out. There was no reply. Grabbing his robe, he hurried down the stairs, but as he passed a window he heard a familiar sound. The friendly, and for them, normal sound of trowel on soil: Stella was gardening at dusk, the only time she could do so safely and still see all the colours of her garden. He continued down and stood on the back step to watch his lover doing the one thing she had clung to in the worst of times. He knew there was no point in telling her that she was wasting her effort, that they would have to leave in a day or two, maybe sooner. She wasn’t doing it because she wanted the beds to be tidy. She was working the soil because she had to. He followed her dirty fingers as they caressed the bud of a daffodil and stroked its leaves. He tried to remember if there was a garden in Bavaria. There had to be. If there were not, he would make one for her.

“Darling, you should be careful.”

“It’s fine, I’m in the shadow of the house.”

He sighed. “Not of that. Of being seen. There are people around who mean us ill. Not just _him_.”

She shook her head. “He’s not here yet. I’m pretty certain I’d smell him. I _know_ I’d feel him. But he is coming.” She sat back on her haunches and looked at Adam. He was barefoot, leaning against the flaking paint of the ancient rear porch. What he was wearing was even older: a rubbed and faded wine-red silk and velvet robe. When she had asked him about it one day, he told her it was probably eighteenth-century. He couldn’t recall exactly, but he’d had it a very long time. “These _others,_ Adam. Can they hurt us?”

He groaned, uncrossed his ankles and stood more upright, plunging his hands into the large pockets on the front of his dressing gown. “If they wanted to, I suppose.” He looked past her, at the walled vegetable garden she had begun to revive. He knew that beneath the dark soil she had buried more bulbs and corms that now she would never see come to fruition.  The seed she had sown, there and in her own little garden, would burst to life unseen by their sower. “He just wants a safe blood supply. I will tell him about the _Centre._ Before we leave.”

She looked steadily at his face, and he could see she was fighting back the tears. “I don’t want to leave here, Adam.”

“I know, my love.” He stepped down as she got to her feet and gathered her against him. “Neither do I, but I can see no alternative.”

*****

Determined to prove the sat-nav wrong, Barnaby floored the pedal, heedless of the risk of speed-cameras. Gendarmes were rare, he’d hardly ever seen any, so as long as he avoided an accident, he would be fine. And he was such a skilled driver there was little risk of that. He had passed the sign announcing he was in the right region at last, and now he could almost smell his money. He had stopped at a large service station, and refuelled the rather greedy engine as well as himself. The food was dull but edible – beggars cannot be choosers.

One tiny thing had spoiled his mood: while he was at the _Baie de Somme_ rest area, he had received an email from the PI company in Paris. Apparently their agent – the one who actually tracked Stella down – had gone missing. According to this chappie, the local police had found his car parked up a country lane, but there was no sign of the frog himself. His mobile was in a ditch a few hundred yards away. Barnaby had been mulling this new information over since he read it, trying to determine if it represented any kind of risk to him. By the time he had begun to digest his _jambon et frites_ he had dismissed it as irrelevant to his personal mission: the man was probably a queer who had propositioned the wrong yokel.

By six in the evening, the annoying screen on his dashboard told him he was approaching the quaint village, just beyond which he had been assured his ex-wife now resided. He pulled into a lay-by to make a proper plan. This business with the missing dick had thrown him more than he cared to admit, and he began to think that he should, perhaps, apply a little caution. He checked the map on his phone, and decided to approach the house from the side, across the fields. He could see there was a narrow little lane, a farm track probably, which he could take. The cold, humourless grin returned as he pictured her face when she opened the door. It was almost dark when he pulled out, gunning the engine and startling a sleepy buzzard off its perch beside the road. He did not admire slow flap of the bird’s wide wings, or the deep blue of the sky or the twinkling of the emerging stars. He was not entranced by the skeleton-shadows of the trees, silhouetted against the great vastness of space. He had but one thing on his mind.

*****

_It was almost annoyingly easy. The man – a great, blundering oaf of a creature – seemed totally unaware of anything around him. He had made so much noise that it was a wonder he hadn’t gathered a crowd around him in minutes. As it was, a dozen small mammals had fled to the field margins and now had their startled eyes fixed on his shadowy shape._

_The car was the first clue for Marcel: large, expensive, ostentatious; it was hilariously unsuitable for driving up farm roads in rural France. The man’s attire too, was a giveaway: a Savile Row suit, obviously bespoke, a fine wool overcoat and hand-made shoes. Once again, nothing he sported was exactly ideal for traversing a muddy field at night._

_The group watched his progress, or rather, lack of it, from their usual perches in the trees of the oak copse. He wandered around, trying to use the light of his phone, hardly ever looking at his surroundings or the sky. The watching predators could feel his heart beating. He was breathing so heavily that Maddalena whispered that he might die of a heart attack before they got to feed on him. A ripple of anticipation ran through them._

_“Wait.” Marcel’s order was quiet, but the tone unmistakeable. “We will just catch this one. He may be of more use to us alive.” He scanned the faces of his followers. There was confusion, but, it seemed, compliance. “We will get him and keep him breathing. For now, at least.”_

_Stealthily, he began to descend the trunk, followed by the rest, and they stalked Barnaby Villiers as he made his loud and unsteady way across the field. Their dark, agile shapes closed in on him silently. A man with less hubris might have felt something, but he was so focussed on his goal he knew nothing until their strong hands grabbed him from behind._


	5. Follow My Lead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barnaby finally catches up with his ex-wife, but not, perhaps, in the way he had hoped. And she is not the pushover he was expecting...

“But where can we go, Adam? How can we-“

They were in the kitchen now, Stella’s gardening cut short by the gathering dark and her growing conviction that her ex-husband was close. They sat opposite each other, hands entwined across the bleached and worn wood of the old table. Adam scanned her face, his old eyes taking her in.

“I’ve been alive a long time, Stella. I’ve lived in a lot of places. Some I liked, some I don’t care if I never see again, but just a few I’ve hung on to.” She was hungry, he could see that, and it made her anxiety more invasive. Tremors ran through her every so often, and when they did he squeezed her hand. “I have a house in Germany. It’s a good place. I don’t know why, but I’ve always made sure it was looked after.” He was wistful for a moment. “We had happy times there. Perhaps I thought I might need to go back one day… It’s remote, and safe, and…” He stopped. A sob had broken from her, a sad, gut-wrenching sound that made his heart lurch. He stood up and slowly walked around the table and crouched down, wrapped his long arms around her and just held on.

She cried for a long time. Grief and fear gripped her and for those minutes she could do nothing except allow them to overwhelm her. Eventually his presence calmed her and she began to quiet. The room was silent apart from their breathing as Adam stood by her and she took the chance to envelope him in her embrace. She pressed her cheek against the silk of his robe, her arms around his waist. He felt the need in her and stayed there.

“Stella.” Finally he spoke again, a soft sound just above a whisper.

He stroked her hair. “What I am telling you is that we have somewhere safe to go. I have booked us on a flight from Nantes. Luc will drive our stuff, whatever we want. But we need to pack whatever we wish to take.”

“When?”

“The night after tomorrow.”

Her sharp intake of breath betrayed her. _So soon?_ She said nothing; she knew Adam was right. The missing man was bound to bring the police to their door. They had nothing to do with it, of course, but any investigation was a risk to them. _And Barnaby was almost there_. Nodding, she stood up and walked out, dreading having to think about having to pick up her life and move, once again. Adam watched her retreating back, then turned, walked over to the old refrigerator in the corner and began to prepare their meal. He wondered briefly if she would ever adjust to this existence, to the never-ending moving through lives, periods and ages.

******

Deep down, Barnaby knew he had to be dreaming. He was in Switzerland, with Barry, his ‘accountant’, in reality no more than an _enabler_ , an expert on getting large amounts of money from one place to another without the irritation of tedious paperwork or the interference of officialdom. He stirred in his sleep, his fingers flexing as he anticipated getting his hands into the stacks of euros in the safety deposit boxes. A pain in his shoulder bothered him; a vague discomfort, and a flicker of concern crossed his still sleeping face. Where was he? Then his fantasy took over again. He could almost smell the steel of the vault…

Marcel sat across the room on one of the dirt-encrusted mattresses, watching the man. He was murmuring and fidgeting, apparently in a dream. They had tied him tightly, trussed him, like a roasting joint ready to be cooked. The vampire grunted and turned away to focus his hearing off across the fields, through the velvety darkness of the cool night, in the direction of Adam’s house: he could hear hurried activity. They were making preparations to leave, no doubt because of _him_. He stood and glanced at his companions.

“Let’s go.” He stood and tossed his head towards the man in the fancy suit and coat, now resembling a rotten log caked in mud. “Bring him – he’s our offering.”

Several pairs of very powerful hands snatched Barnaby up and the movement roused him. Startled, he yelped and tried to struggle. He was not a weak man, but he was disorientated and his limbs were immobilised, pulled firmly against each other and his body with what felt like electric cable, which was cutting painfully into his flesh. His eyes scanned the gloomy space around him urgently, since he was unable to see who – _or what –_ was gripping him and carrying him, like a parcel, horizontal to the floor. The room was dark and reeked of animals and stale excrement; he tried to make sense of what was happening.

“Who the fuck _are_ you people? What do you think…LET ME GO AT ONCE!”

Marcel leaned in, close to his face, his strange metallic pupils glittering in the dim light. “If I were you, I’d shut up, _Arschloch_.”

Something about the man chilled Barnaby to the marrow, and, for once, he did as he was told. He pressed his lips together and closed his eyes, but the image of those inhuman irises stayed burned onto his retinas.

*****

Adam found Stella sitting cross-legged in the centre of the small room where she had placed her books, surrounded by haphazard piles of volumes. In the rush of activity, bewilderment and cultural adjustment that followed her entrance into his world, her library had been moved but never fully unpacked. Now she was cursing that decision; she had emptied one box, planning to choose just those she could not live without, but had given up after just a few minutes. It felt impossible to discard anything: her books had been her friends, her lifeline until Adam came into her life. How could she abandon her family?

“Here, my love.” He handed her a cordial glass of blood. She sipped it eagerly, glad of the momentary distraction. He looked around. “You know, you don’t have to leave any of them. Put them back in their boxes and Luc can bring the lot.” He reached out and stroked the shimmering waterfall of hair that draped so beautifully over her shoulder. He smiled a little; a rare event, and all the more precious. “He can make more than one trip, if he has to.”

Stella’s eyes closed as a wave of relief ran over her. “Please. Yes…that would be… I just can’t…”

“I know, my love. It’s a fucking drag, having to leave stuff behind. I’m going to take as many instruments as I can this time. I left some really great guitars in Detroit…” She saw his gaze turn down, and a wistfulness cross his face. He had begun to rebuild his collection; he had shown her the violin and the cello, and the vintage drum kit Luc had found for him in a _depôt-vente_ in Rennes. She didn’t want anything else, none of her clothes or her other things, but her books and her music were almost as precious as he was to her.

_Almost_.

The warm pleasure of the blood permeating her body soothed her, and she was able to focus again. . “How do you do this Adam? How do you get up one day and simply move on?”

“Darling, you just do it. What other option do you have? If you want to survive, and I know you understand this, you do it. There was a time when I felt I was tired of ‘living’ this way, saw no point in it any longer. And then, I met you. After 500 years, this fucking world still finds a way to surprise me.”

“Once every 100 years or so?” She asked him with a hint of sarcasm, and a lot of hope.

“Maybe. Still.”

“Have you started packing?”

Adam snorted softly. “Not yet. I only want the stuff in the sitting room.” He pondered for a moment. What else did he want, in fact, now he had the option to keep things, for once? “And my pictures.” He looked at Stella. “And some of Eve’s books.”

She nodded and leaned over to kiss his cheek. “It’s surprising how clear it becomes, isn’t it? How what really matters is obvious, when you have to make choices this fast?”

“Yes, and even though-“

They both turned their heads supernaturally fast and looked at the shuttered and curtained window. Was it a noise or a scent that had alerted them? Either way, they knew someone was approaching, fast.

“Adam…”

“It’s the Others. And is that..?”

“Yes.” She paused, considering. “He’s scared. I never knew he could be scared, but that’s what I’m getting…” She was unaware of it, but a cold smile was breaking across her face. Adam saw it and while he didn’t exactly _like_ it, he understood why, and he felt it was a good development. He reached for her hand.

“Come on.”

They went down to the front door and through the etched glass they could see a dozen figures arranged in a rough semi-circle, standing in the fan of light from the porch lantern. On the bottom step, Marcel was waiting, his hands clasped loosely in front of him. Adam opened the door and Marcel nodded silently, stepping to one side to reveal behind him an enormously tall man. The giant was holding the trussed body of Stella’s ex-husband aloft. He was suspended head downwards, looking exactly like a pheasant after a shoot.

But Barnaby was not inert as a dead game bird might be. He was shaking, and Adam noted with satisfaction that he had soiled himself. Not just the scent of excrement, but also that of pure terror poured off him in waves. His eyes bulged and widened when he saw his ex-wife stepping out of the house to join her lover.

“Stella! Who are these…what do they want…is he, are you-“

“Shut your mouth, you.” Her voice was quiet, but it had an immediate effect. He did stop speaking, but he did not shut his mouth. He gaped at the woman he had abused for years, whose very essence he had worked so hard to erase, as she stood tall and straight and looked back at him contemptuously. A realisation was beginning to coalesce in his terrified brain: Stella was no longer the obedient little creature he had married. This was not the quivering weakling he had anticipated meeting. He took a few gasping breaths and attempted to formulate a plan. Barnaby Villiers was not accustomed to being helpless; quite the reverse. Since prep school, he had been the one steering events in whatever direction he desired. But this time, not only did have absolutely no control over anything, he was also completely ignorant of what was going on. But he had gleaned one thing: he should do as these people said, at least for now. They seemed to have all the cards, and they were immensely strong.

“What is it that you want, Marcel?” Adam spoke as softly as Stella had. He guessed what was happening, but he needed the leader of this band to spell it out. Marcel grinned, then laughed.

“We found this… _creature_ trying to sneak up to your house, Adam. He seems to think he has some business with you, or with your mate.” He glanced around at his companions, who were all smiling, “What would you like us to do with him?” The grin broadened, revealing fangs. The others did the same and Barnaby began to wriggle in his bindings. He wailed piteously.

“Give him to us.” Stella’s words shocked everyone. She descended the few steps and leaned down to peer into her ex’s distraught face. “I’d like to know what hewants.”

Giorgio, the seven-feet-tall former wrestler who was holding him, shrugged and dropped the bound man like a hot potato. He hit the hard earth face downwards and with a satisfying thud. Whimpering noises came from his crumpled form.

“Give us a couple of hours, would you?” Adam was addressing Marcel, who lowered his head, apparently grasping his meaning. “We’d like to have a little time alone with him. We will have something for you after that.” The group melted away into the inky darkness that began at the edge of the lamplight. Adam stooped, grabbed a handful of the bindings, and began to drag Barnaby up the porch stairs and into the house. Grunts of pain and fear erupted with each blow of his torso and limbs against the wood. The back of his head met each step with a pleasing crunch. Once indoors, Adam pulled him, still moaning, into the kitchen and wedged him into one of the carver chairs with ill-disguised disgust.

Once upright, Barnaby let his eyes flick from Adam to Stella and back again. He was still not sure what was happening, but he was pretty certain he was in a degree of trouble. “ _Who-o-o...is this m-m-m-man, St-st-stella_?”

The vampire stepped closer and leaned down to look directly into his eyes. “I am Adam, you fucking cunt. Stella is mine and I am hers. What the fuck do you want with her?”

The panic was subsiding a little as Barnaby’s instinctive arrogance began to regain a tiny foothold. _He’d never had any difficulty controlling Stella before, so surely he would be able to manipulate her, even now? Plus, who was this asshole talking about owning her? He had to control the situation, at least enough to get her to release him from these bindings…_ He’d been so certain she’d be desperate to return to the luxury of his care that he hadn’t given any thought to how he might persuade her…

“I missed you, darling, I-“

“Oh shut the fuck up, Barnaby! You miss that Swiss money, more like.”

“Now, listen here-“

Adam, who had been standing a little way off, in an attempt to avoid the reeking stench, grabbed a red ear and yanked Barnaby’s head back. His voice was low and menacing, and it made the blood drain from the other’s face. “You’re in no position to give orders, mate. Just answer the question.” Stella couldn’t help but grin at the look of submission that showed on her ex’s face. In all the years she had known him, he’d never been anything but totally confident and in charge. She liked this new version.

He did a quick re-think, settling on a more up-front, pragmatic approach: “OK, look, I don’t want any trouble. I just need you to come with me to Zurich. To the bank, you rememb-“

“Oh, there’d be no point, Barnaby dear. I emptied those boxes some time ago.” She smirked at the renewed look of horror she saw. “Yes, well, the accounts were mine, weren’t they? In my name, needing me, and _only_ me to get into them…? I thought the money might come in handy, so I popped it somewhere more accessible.”

A tiny pinprick of hope. “Let’s go there then,” Stella raised her eyebrows, “to wherever you moved it to, I mean.” His face was a picture as she roared with laughter, shaking her head.

“Oh, honestly, you are so funny, Barney. It’s gone, you wanker!” The room became quiet again as she leaned down to speak into his ear. “I spent some, but gave most of it to charity, you thieving arsehole: _Unicef, Oxfam, Medicins Sans Frontières_ ; I knew you’d got it dishonestly, so I gave it to people who’d use it for good. So you see, it’s gone. _All gone._ ”

The sound that erupted from the bound man was wilder and more inhuman than anything Adam, Stella or even Marcel could have made. It was a blend of horror, fury and utter helplessness. Driven to the edge of insanity by this news, he struggled again and managed to get his feet onto the floor and stand. He was beyond reason by now, and lunged snarling towards his ex-wife, spittle flying from his bared teeth. Moving like lightning, Adam caught hold of him and threw him against the dresser across the room, causing a dozen plates and bowls to crash onto the terracotta tiles. Stella had stepped back as fast as her mate had moved to intervene, and now she walked calmly over to where Barnaby’s crumpled form lay. He appeared to have broken a few bones on impact, but his eyes still glowed with impotent fury. He was muttering.

“That was mine… _mine…my money_ , you bitch…”

A swift kick to the mouth stopped that. Stella turned and walked out of the room to resume her packing.

Adam was still in full attack-mode; chest heaving and fists clenched by his sides. He was not given to violence, and had never wanted to harm anyone apart from those few occasions when Eve had been threatened. _But this raping, wife-beating cunt…_ He, too, turned to leave, making a conscious effort to calm his mind and send a message to Marcel: _Come and get him: he’s all yours._

*****

A ruby-red light was squeezing its way between the heavy silk curtains, making long shadows fall on the worn but still beautiful Persian rugs that covered the floor. Low lights illuminated the high ceilings of the large room, casting more shadows over the ornate plasterwork and paintings that covered the walls. In the centre, among a muddle of instruments and electrical equipment, a crescent of guitars on stands flanked the tall, slim and ethereal man who stood in front of the microphone. The headphones he wore flattened his wild black hair, framing his pale, elfin face; his feet were bare, and his toes curled up as he sang softly.

“Adam.”

He paused and looked over to the doorway. Leaning on the post was his mate; she was as otherworldly as he. Her shimmering blonde hair, made almost auburn by the diffuse light from the rising sun, fell in waves down her body, accentuating the white skin of the generous cleavage that peeked out from her blue silk robe.

“It’s almost dawn. Come to bed, my love.”

He sighed, put down the lute he had been strumming and switched off the laptop beside him. Heedless of the clutter, he strode across the room and was gathered into her embrace.

The lovers climbed the wide, elegant staircase, arms entwined. The house was old, with long shadowy corridors and dark, heavily carved wood ornamentation. Painted panels decorated the walls, with a few large oil canvases here and there. It was cool, and the windows were shuttered against the new day as they reached their bedroom. The canopied bed, its golden silk shining in the low light, called to them and they fell into its soft enveloping comfort. Adam kissed her softly, stroking her hair away from her face.

She locked her eyes on his, overwhelmed with love for him, yet again. They were safe, settled in this lovely place, utterly devoted just to one another. Their bodies came together, linking and moving against each other like parts machine-tooled to precision; neither doubted any longer that they were made to be together.

********

_POSTSCRIPT:_

_The vampire settled back on the pillows, his mate beside him in their comfortable bed. Marcel rubbed his stomach: he was content. Life was pretty good now. He had a nice, dry house. He had a good and safe supply of blood, thanks to the contact he had been given. Not that he had needed it straight away: his pack and he had dined well on the foie-gras-scented, rich-claret-fragranced blood of one Barnaby Villiers for a while. At the request of his former wife, they had not killed him immediately; in fact they had kept him alive for quite a few weeks. Maddalena, in particular, had a great deal of fun with him. Once she heard the full story of how he had treated Stella, she decided to ‘dismantle’ him, piece by piece, while in the meantime, they all fed from him regularly, leaving him too weak to fight back but still breathing - just. When, finally, they relented and allowed him to die, the very last thing he saw was Marcel’s mate across the room, grinning as she played idly with what had once been his manhood._

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt to write anything with any real violence in it, rather than just the hint of it or its aftermath. But I hope you will agree that with one exception, it was deserved...


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